


Wednesday's Child (The Full of Woe Remix)

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean and fear and love. A "before and after" take on the original story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday's Child (The Full of Woe Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frostian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Heavenly Day](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/45748) by frostian. 



> A lot of this is stream-of-consciousness, internal monologue, so I'm hoping it's not too messy or meandering. The original story seems to be fairly AU, so that's where I went, too. Assume it veers from canon shortly after 2x22, but the events from "Mystery Spot" still take place. It's a Gen story because one of the rules of remix is that you can't change the original pairing, but you *are* allowed to either downplay the pairing or to hint at something more. So, uhm, yes, I kinda hinted at something more.

**i.**

It's a Wednesday when it happens. Two months after Dean's traded his soul for Sam's life, and he comes _this_ close to losing him again. 

He's too slow. Too fucking slow, _again_ , and the thing they're hunting—the ghost of a freakin' Choctaw warrior, of all things—has his brother knocked unconscious and on the ground before Dean can quite react. Knee between Sam's shoulder blades, fist in his hair in a brutal pull and knife at the ready. The ghost flickers when the first round of rocksalt hits it, the knife cutting across Sam's forehead instead of his scalp. Dean's advancing as he shoots a second time; another flicker, and this time the knife slices clean through Sam's hair. Sam's face hits the ground and Dean doesn't wait for the ghost to regain its grip, just pumps it full of salt, the muzzle of his shotgun pressing right against the ghost's face as he delivers the round that blows it to hell. 

It's been two months. Only eight weeks since Dean's watched him (held him) as he died, and Sam's lying bleeding (breathing, keep breathing) on the ground, and it's a fucking Wednesday. So much blood and Dean feels numb, too slow, too stupid, (should've asked for more, shoulda made you invincible) and his hands are shaking, clutching touching turning Sam over-

(hang on, Sam, it's gonna be okay, just hang on)

-pressing down on the cut and his fingers are slippery-sticky with blood, warm like before—before Sam went still, before he turned limp and cold and too heavy—and it hits Dean all at once, the _feel-smell-taste_ of it-

(not too heavy, Sammy, been carrying you to safety since you were a baby, just stay with me now)

-as he hauls his brother up and drags him to the car, shoes scuffing on the dirt and somehow, somehow-

Somehow they make it back to the motel. Dean doesn't remember tying his shirt around Sam's head to staunch the blood, doesn't remember the drive. He doesn't remember cleaning the wound, patching it, it's all too slippery(sticky) and he can't hold it in his mind. 

What he does remember is watching Sam breathe. He remembers listening for it, the sound filling his whole world, defining it. He remembers-

(don't die don't die just stay with me don't you dare do this to me)

-his hand on Sam's chest, and there, right there under it, Sam's heartbeat-

(got nothing left to offer them, no way for me to get you back again and what would I do then, huh?)

-strong and steady but what he remembers is-

What he remembers is, it's a Wednesday. Curled around his brother on the bed, still shaking with adrenaline and fear, Dean's pretty sure he should hate Wednesdays. If he believed in things like fate and destiny—and he doesn't, he _doesn't_ —he might think then that Wednesdays are when the Winchesters are at their most vulnerable. 

Because see, here's the thing. It was a Wednesday when Mary died. A Wednesday, too, when Jessica died, pinned to the ceiling and burned alive like their mother before her. Not a Wednesday when John died, no, but then his death had been John's own choice—and Dean had hated his father for it then, but he understood it all too well now. 

Hadn't been a Wednesday when Sam died either, but close enough. Close enough, and Dean had sealed his deal on a Wednesday. Sam's birthday, and then it was his birth day all over again and Dean wasn't sure anymore what he was to Sam, big brother-

(pulled you away from the fire, it's my job to keep you safe)

-or surrogate parent- 

(raised you, Sammy, gave my life for yours)

-or something more and Dean doesn't-

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep. Only that it isn't Wednesday anymore when he finally allows himself to close his eyes. 

+++

Sam has to cut his hair after that. Half of it is gone already anyway, so there's really no other way around it. 

"'Bout time, princess." Dean smirks as he puts scissors to his brother's hair, but it's half-hearted, more because it's expected than anything else, and he doesn't want to make Sam worry. He's fine. Really, he is. Everything's just peachy. 

Sam huffs. "You're way too happy about this," and then, "Hey! Watch it, jerk," when Dean slaps him upside the head. 

"You bet I'm happy. I finally won't have to be ashamed of being seen with you. Bitch," Dean retorts, and then Sam is smiling at him in the mirror and for an instant things feel almost normal.

And, as it turns out, Sam's right, too. Dean realizes he is, if not happy, pretty content about this. Even if _this_ has nothing at all to do with Sam's hair.

Sam's still here with him, and that's always been enough. 

+++

The cut on Sam's forehead scars. Dean's sure Sam's going to let his hair grow back, maybe even learn to use those freaky psychic powers he claims he doesn't have anymore to make it grow in record time, just to prove to Dean scissors won't _ever_ work for him. 

So when Sam shows up with his hair newly trimmed one afternoon three weeks later, Dean has a hard time hiding his surprise. 

Sam notices, of course. No powers of any kind needed to decipher the openmouthed look Dean knows he's wearing on his face. 

"More practical this way," Sam tells him with a shrug that's supposed to convey casual and is anything but. "Safer when we're hunting, right?"

"Sure, right." Dean thinks even his tone comes out dumbstruck.

"Seriously, Dean, it's fine," and Sam sounds almost annoyed now. "I like it like this, all right? So quit worrying already."

Dean doesn't quit worrying. Not only that, but he's surprised all over again when he finds himself hating Sam's new haircut. When he catches himself _missing_ Sam's stupid bangs. 

He's short-tempered and irritable through three hunts and five states, and the hurt in Sam's eyes stings a little more every time he looks at him, twists a little deeper with every angry word Dean says and Sam doesn't. What irks Dean even more is, even though Sam's the one keeping silent on this and he's the one bitching, Dean's the one who's really hiding his feelings from his brother. Nothing new there, and Dean should be happy that _something_ 's still familiar, but everything else isn't and during those few weeks Dean feels selfish enough to want things to stay exactly the same, the way they're supposed to be. 

+++

But then. Then it dawns on him. What he's been taking out on Sam, and what that's doing to him, doing to them both. They're about to order breakfast in a crappy diner in Bumfuck, Nowhere, and all of a sudden there's so much guilt surging up inside him he doubles over, the weight and ache of it too huge and too sharp and fuck, he doesn't remember turning into a girl but it must've happened because he can't fucking _breathe_. 

"Dean?" Sam's next to him inside a second, hand resting warmly on the nape of his neck and voice saturated with so much concern Dean nearly whimpers with the fresh stab of guilt that goes through him. He still has his pride, though, or what's left of it anyway, so he restrains himself by banging his forehead against the worn Formica table instead. 

"We're okay, he's okay, he's just- he's fine," Dean hears Sam say, probably to their waitress. Dean doesn't want to check, raising his head feels like an impossible task right now and even if it isn't he doesn't think he can look anyone in the eye. Doesn't think he can hide any of what he's feeling and Dean Winchester does _not_ wear his heart on his sleeve, despite current evidence to the contrary. The last thing he needs is sympathy from a stranger. 

"M'okay," Dean croaks, hand waving in a vague gesture. Sam squeezes him lightly and Dean feels his other hand curl around his arm. 

There's a slight pause, and Dean imagines the practiced, reassuring smile Sam is pointing at whoever's standing by their table. 

"You boys let me know if you need anything." A woman's voice, shuffling steps retreating to the other end of the diner. 

"Dean?" Sam tries again, voice pitched low, meant only for his ears. His thumb is brushing against Dean's neck and Dean can't help the shudder than runs through him. 

"I'm okay." There's more conviction in his tone this time, and when he finally does raise his head and looks at his brother, all the apologies he could never actually say are there in his eyes for Sam to see. 

+++

They don't talk about it, not really. There are no deep secrets revealed, no awkward sharing of feelings, but Sam forgives him and just like that all of Dean's anger is gone, and things get a little bit better for a while. 

But yeah, Dean can still taste it, regret like ashes in his mouth. Sam takes to touching Dean more often, as if by laying hands on him he can claim him as his and keep anyone and anything from taking Dean from him when the time is due. There's Sam's hand on the nape of Dean's neck, always, when Dean's driving, his thumb rubbing circles on his skin. Sam's hand on the small of his back whenever Dean leads the way in and out of places. Coming or leaving, it doesn't matter; Sam is always there, following close. 

Late at night, when Dean is sure Sam is asleep, he touches the spot on his neck where Sam's thumb rests every day. He thinks the skin is worn smoother, thinner, the barrier separating his insides from the outside growing more fragile with each passing day. Sam's been working on trying to get Dean out of his deal, sleeping less and doing more research, and it's not that Dean doesn't have faith in his brother, it's just that he knows there's no loophole to find. He wishes Sam would get more rest, slow down and just _live_ this year with him, but Dean knows (wish _you_ didn't, Sammy) the kind of despair that's driving him, and he knows nothing he could say would make Sam give up. 

Sam keeps his hair short, and even if Dean's better about it now he still doesn't like it. It makes Sam look too young, too vulnerable and exposed, like he used to when they were kids and Dad would force them both to get haircuts once a month. Sam had let his hair grow longer as soon as he was old enough to confront their father, the first open act of defiance from him Dean can clearly remember. 

Late, so late at night, when he's falling asleep listening to his brother breathe in the dark, Dean sometimes thinks he took something from Sam when he cut his hair. It's stupid, he knows it's stupid, Sam isn't short for Samson and Dean sure as hell isn't Delilah, but the thought persists and he's helpless against it. It follows him into his dreams, where the scar on Sam's forehead writhes and changes, spelling words that sear the inside of his eyelids and jolt him awake with terror lodged in his throat. _Stay with me, Dean. Protect me. I can't do this without you_. 

So Sam keeps his hair short, and Dean lets his grow. He's not sure what he's rebelling against; he's not sure he _wants_ to know. Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't joke about it. His fingers rake through Dean's hair as he drives, catch and tangle and stay. His thumb still rubs circles on Dean's neck, and Dean thinks- 

(any day now)

-any day now he's going to break open and his insides will come spilling out, everything he is and has ever been laid out in the open for Sam to read. Or maybe, maybe it won't be so messy, maybe it's just Sam who'll burrow into him, his thumb fitting just right in the groove he's been digging into Dean and Sam will know then, he'll know that everything in there is his, that the whole of Dean has always belonged to him. 

Dean would stay if he could. The closer he gets to the end of his year, the more he knows he'd do anything to get out of this deal. Anything but forfeit Sam's life. Anything but damn Sam's soul. Dean doesn't care how many drops of black have mixed in with the white, he knows Sam is good. He looks at Sam and that's what he sees, his baby, his brother, the person who's always meant more to him than his own life, and it's all good. It's the only truly good thing Dean's ever known. 

The road stretches out before them as Dean drives and he'd stay if he could, he'd keep driving forever with Sam by his side but he can't, his road will be ending soon and Sam-

(just stay alive, keep breathing, you can't follow where I'm going)

-Sam's will go on, he'll stay here even when Dean can't and really, that's all that matters to him. 

Late at night. So late it's not really night anymore, sometimes—not often—Dean lets himself think about it. He lets himself wonder what Hell's going to be like. Lets himself honestly picture what life's going to be like for Sam without him, and the thought alone-

(still remember what it felt like without you and I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry you're gonna know it too but I'm not sorry for what I did) 

-is enough to crush him. And he thinks, unless that's what Hell is—unless they make him watch and witness what this is gonna do to Sam until he _is_ sorry—unless that's what they have in store for him, then Hell's still gonna be hard, but not impossible to endure. 

The light at the intersection changes to red and Sam squeezes the back of his neck as the car eases to a stop, and when Dean looks he finds Sam looking back at him.

_I'm still here, Sammy_ , Dean promises him silently. _Not going anywhere, not until I have to_. 

+++

 

**ii.**

It's a Wednesday when it happens. 

Nine months into Dean's year, three months still left for Sam to try and find a way to save him when Dean dies.

He dies on a Tuesday first. Over and over and over and _over_ again. It drives Sam more than a little insane, but at least he knows then he'll wake up and Dean will be alive again, and Sam has no doubt he'll figure it out. Failing has never been an option when it comes to Dean's life, deal or no deal.

Sam figures it out. He figures it out, and when he wakes up the next morning it's Wednesday and Dean's still alive. Sam can't wait to leave Broward County, can't wait to leave the whole sorry state of Florida behind and never look back, never set foot anywhere near it again. He's a ball of restless energy, itching to be back on the road with Dean and relieved that this nightmare is finally over. He feels weirdly reinvigorated, too; he's managed to save Dean, and he knows, he _knows_ he can do it again. He's watched his brother die too many times, and there's no way he's watching it happen again. 

But then. But then, of course, he does. 

It's a Wednesday and Dean is alive, and then-

-and then he isn't. He dies in Sam's arms again, and god it hurts, hurts so fucking bad, just like the first time all over again and Sam would break if he didn't know he'd be waking up soon. 

And that's where the catch is, isn't it? Because he doesn't wake up, not this time. Dean dies and Sam stays awake and Dean, Dean stays dead. 

Sam waits at first. He carries Dean back to their motel room and he sits down next to him and he waits. When he's tired of sitting he paces the room, but that means he can't keep his eyes on Dean the whole time, so he stops pacing and he stretches out next to his brother on the bed. And he waits. 

Dean feels so cold, colder as the shadows in the room lengthen and crawl across the floor, up the walls as the day passes. Sam touches him, scared and tentative, slides his fingers through his hair, lets his thumb press against Dean's neck. There's no pulse there. No breath in his lungs, no heartbeat, just an entry wound and a spatter of dried blood where the bullet pierced his brother's heart and killed him. 

Sam waits. He waits. He waits. 

He waits until he knows he can't wait anymore. Until he knows neither of them is waking up from this. Not unless he finds the Trickster and makes him put things back the way they should be. 

He puts Dean in the car and drives. Drives until there's nothing but night sky above, nothing but empty, rolling fields on all sides, stretching as far as he can see. Drives until even the road—the one constant in his life besides Dean—thins out into gravel and dirt and desolation under the Impala's wheels.

The flames from the funeral pyre reach high into the heavens as Sam stands watching, and it's only then that the terrible realization that Dean's headed the other way truly hits him. He thinks he shouldn't have set Dean's body on fire when his soul is already burning, but by then his brother is half ashes already and it's too late to stop it. 

+++

It takes Sam months to track down the Trickster. Months when there's no one with him in the car, no one stealing food from his plate or using up all the hot water in the shower. Months when there's only a single bed in the motel rooms he stays in and the drapes are always closed and the walls are always covered with his research. 

He barely speaks during that time. He goes on hunting but never lingers anywhere, always on the move, always looking for the next job, the next clue. He's obsessed. He's relentless. He's probably

-going, going, _gone_ \- 

out of his mind, but he doesn't care. All he cares about is reversing this.

Sam doesn't grieve for his brother. He doesn't allow himself to, because it's a luxury he doesn't have time for. Because it's a weakness he can't afford.

He uses the extra time the Trickster's given him—because that's what this is, just extra time and really, in the end that'll turn out being a _good_ thing—to keep looking for a way to save Dean from going to Hell. 

He doesn't cry. Doesn't shed a single tear, not once during all those months alone.

_I'm sorry, Dean_ , Sam tells him every night in his dreams. But every night Dean is screaming and Sam knows he can't hear him. All he can do is watch as the combined fires of Hell and the pyre Sam lit eat away at Dean until there's nothing left but blackest smoke. 

+++

After he finds the Trickster. After he has Dean back, Sam thinks he should be happier. And it's not that he isn't, not exactly. It's that he's forgotten how. 

When Sam wraps his arms around his brother that morning—back in Broward County on Wednesday morning all over again—all he can think is, _I'm going to lose you again and I don't know how to stop it_. All he can think is, _Dean, time is running out and I can't find a way to save you_.

Sam should be happier to have Dean back. And it's not that he isn't. It's just that he's too fucking terrified. 

That night he crawls into bed next to Dean and Dean lets him. That night, Sam hangs on tightly to his brother and Dean doesn't complain. 

That night, when Dean falls asleep, it's with Sam's hand splayed open on his chest. Sam stays awake, relearning the sounds Dean makes in his sleep, the clean smell of him after a shower, the warmth and tangibility of him, and he aches with how much he's missed Dean. How much he _still_ misses him. 

Sam doesn't sleep that night. He can't. Not even when Wednesday becomes Thursday and Dean's still breathing.

Because see, here's the thing. Here's where the catch is. Dean might not remember Hell, but Sam-

Sam does. 

+++

One week. Only one week left when Sam decides there's no other choice. 

There's this ancient ritual Sam found, sometime during those months that never happened. Constantine's Box. A spell that can trap the Crossroads Demon and strip it of its powers. Better than a Devil's Trap, because—he's sure—the Demon won't be expecting it. Won't be looking for it. 

Sam doesn't like it. In fact, he really, really hates it. That's why he hadn't been willing to consider it at first. But now.

Now they've run out of time, and Sam knows

- _please forgive me, Dean_ -

he knows this is the only option he has left. 

Trap the Demon. Leave it unable to summon the Hellhounds. Unable to claim Dean's soul. 

It won't hold for long, Sam knows. But it'll hold long enough. 

It'll hold long enough for Sam to kill his brother. 

He hates it. Fuck, he hates it. It makes Sam sick, just thinking about it but

- _there's no other way, there's nothing, nothing and I can't let you go to Hell, Dean, I can't, I won't_ -

but he'll do it. He'll go through with it. Save his brother from the fire, just like Dean's done for him. 

He's sure, as sure as he can be that if Dean dies when the Demon can't claim him, then Dean's soul will go where it's supposed to go. And wherever that is, Sam knows it won't be Hell. 

"Thinking deep thoughts?" Dean's voice startles him, and he shuts down the laptop too hard and too fast. 

Dean pretends not to notice. "You know that if you keep that up you'll be needing a Botox injection sooner rather than later."

Sam rolls his eyes at him. It's a required reaction. "So who was that on the phone?"

"Bobby," Dean says, throwing himself down on his bed. "He, uh. You know."

A beat, and when more isn't forthcoming Sam turns and—casually—puts his laptop back in its sleeve. "No, actually, I don't know."

Sam winces when Dean sighs, because suddenly, he does know. 

"He wants us to come stay with him. Until- until," Dean says softly. 

"You wanna?" Sam isn't looking at Dean. He can't. 

"As good a place as any, I guess." 

Sam just nods. "Okay, then."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "Okay."

+++

They don't go to Bobby's right away. It's a mutual decision they reach without saying a word about it. 

There's so much they don't say these days. More than the usual. So much they _can't_ say. So much they don't need to. 

For five days they just drive, no destination in mind. They don't venture too far from Bobby's—this too by unspoken agreement—but they don't get too close either. It's not time yet, not time, and for a little while they both pretend they're just two people on a road trip. Dean drives slower and plays his music louder, and Sam sings along with him, off-key and only guessing at the words half of the time. But it makes Dean happy, so Sam keeps singing, keeps singing until he's hoarse, hand on the back of Dean's neck and fingers tangled in his hair, and if he holds on tighter than usual, well, Dean doesn't seem to mind. 

They stop to eat whenever Dean decides he's hungry. Sam watches as his brother stuffs his mouth full of eggs and sausages and hashbrowns at breakfast, burgers—with extra onions—and fries at lunch. Sam lets Dean steal as much food as he wants from his plate, and they try every kind of pie listed in every menu at every pit stop they pass through. Dinner is usually pizza and beer, both of them leaning against the hood of the Impala, parked in the middle of nowhere and listening to the noises the engine makes as it cools. After that it's more driving, twilight softening the edges of the world before deepening into darkness and Zeppelin in the tape deck, volume turned down low, the haunting notes barely audible above the engine's rumble. 

Dean drives until he's bone-tired, and then Sam drives while Dean dozes in the passenger seat, dashboard glowing softly and headlights forging ahead. They stop for the night at the usual places, no-tell motels with cheesy décor and stained carpets, and Sam lets Dean pick the bed he wants, lets him use the bathroom first and doesn't complain when there isn't enough hot water left by the time he gets in the shower. 

Dean notices, of course. He notices, and Sam doesn't try to deny any of it. For once, though, there's no macho posturing, and Sam would— _should_ —be pleased about it, except that the look on Dean's face is so un-Dean-like all it does is remind Sam that they're slowing to a stop, and Sam doesn't know, he doesn't have a clue how he'll start again afterwards.

The night before they drive to Bobby's Sam falls asleep while Dean is in the shower. He wakes up when Dean is done, mostly because Dean lets him know. "I didn't use all the hot water this time," he hears his brother say, and just like that tears well up in his eyes and his heart feels too tight in his chest. He presses his face against the pillow to muffle the noise that threatens to escape him and pretends to be too tired, keeps his breathing as slow and as measured as he can even as his insides feel raw and ragged.

Sam falls back asleep like that, listening to the TV babble while Dean channel surfs. When he wakes up again it's much later, and Dean's asleep on top of the covers, remote still in his hand and one leg sliding off the bed. 

He contemplates getting up to help Dean into a more comfortable position, but he doesn't. He doesn't, because he thinks he couldn't stand to touch Dean right now. He doesn't move at all, hands fisted in his pillow as he watches Dean sleep, the flickering light from the TV casting shadows at odd angles across the room, painting everything in unexpected hues. 

Sam spends the rest of the night awake like that, watching his brother, almost afraid to blink. He wonders at the irony of it, how Dean had been supposed to kill him if he couldn't save him, how to save Dean now Sam would have to kill him. Dean's time should've been up twice before already—and isn't the third time always the charm—but no matter how Sam looks at it, he can't accept it, can't reconcile the reality of his brother warm and healthy and young and alive just a few feet away from him right at that moment with the knowledge that by this time tomorrow Dean will be gone. 

By this time tomorrow, Dean's blood will be on his hands.

Sam doesn't really care. He doesn't care what's going to become of him. All he cares about is saving his brother. And if he can't save Dean's life, saving Dean's soul is the next best thing. 

He's not going to regret it. He doesn't care, doesn't care about the price he eventually will have to pay. And he thinks, _maybe this is my destiny. Maybe it's been my fate all along_.

His fate. His task, to be his brother's 

- _killer_ \- 

keeper, and the proof's been there for nearly a year already, the mark on his forehead clearly evident for anyone who cares to see.

+++

 

**iii.**

In the end, all of Sam's planning, all of his worrying and agonizing, it's all for nothing. 

Sam's so busy preparing for what he has to do he doesn't notice Dean's been preparing too. Doesn't even suspect, and he should've been paying attention, should've known Dean would know he was planning something. Should've known Dean would try and stop him. 

But he doesn't see it. He doesn't see it, and by the time he starts to nod off at Bobby's kitchen table just hours before Dean's collection is due, by the time his sluggish mind catches up with the obvious fact that Dean's drugged him—exactly like he'd planned on doing to Dean—by then it's already too late. He can feel himself slipping into unconsciousness and he wants to punch someone, wants to stop time and stop the world and yell at his brother, yell at Bobby, tell them to wait for him, wait

- _don't, fuck, just don't burn his body, don't do it, wait until I wake up, please_ -

please, his mind begs when he wakes up. 

But there's no more waiting now. It's the next morning and all the waiting, a whole year worth of it, it's all over.

It's the next morning. 

It's Sam's first morning without Dean.

+++

Dean's tied his amulet around Sam's neck. Left the only piece of him he could for Sam to keep. 

It hurts. It hurts more than Sam can stand and he clutches at the amulet as he stumbles into the kitchen, eyes filled with tears and insides hollowed out by grief. 

He hears Dean before he sees him. Out in the yard, his voice carrying strong and clear as he curses. Sam's heartbeat stutters and he runs out of the house, the glint of sunlight against metal blinding him for a second or two as he spins in a half circle in Bobby's yard looking for his brother.

And he's there. Dean's right there, under the Impala as he tinkers with her. 

Sam thinks he's dreaming. He must be, but then Dean is standing in front of him, smiling at him and cracking stupid jokes and he looks so real, he's squinting against the sun just like he always does when the light's too bright and Sam's chest hurts, it hurts because there's so much light and so much anger burning through him and if Dean doesn't tell him right now how it's possible for him to be standing here in front of Sam he thinks he might- 

"God," Dean tells him. He doesn't sound like he's joking now. 

Sam doesn't believe it. But he believes that Dean believes it, and as uncharacteristic as that is for him, Sam's glad his brother's chosen to believe in something hopeful for once.

+++

Later that evening, though. Later that evening, when they're both sitting outside bumping shoulders and nursing beers, Sam tells him. 

"Dean. I don't think-" He scuffs his shoe against the dirt. "I don't think it was God."

"What, then?" But Dean can read the answer on Sam's face when he looks at him. "Another demon."

Sam just nods.

"You think ol' yellow eyes is back?"

Sam's lips curve slightly at Dean's joke. "I don't know. Haven't felt him or even dreamed about him, if that's what you mean."

Dean nods too, looking thoughtful as he takes a long pull from his beer. 

They fall quiet for a while, and Sam doesn't mind. He doesn't mind, because Dean's right here next to him and that's always been enough. 

It's Dean who breaks the silence. "Might be a new player in town. A pretty powerful one, too." 

"Maybe." Sam shrugs. "Probably."

"So what you're saying is," Dean starts, sticking out his finger at Sam. The finger he deliberately burned the night before as a reminder of what he'd thought had been God's interference on his behalf. "What you're saying is, I got this for nothing?"

Sam huffs out a startled laugh. "You never know, man. Some people dig scars."

Dean shakes his head, but he's laughing too. "Well, hey, I'm still here, that's gotta be worth something, right? So last night wasn't a total loss. And whoever, whatever they're planning, we don't have to play along." He looks at Sam again, and even though there's a soft smile playing on his lips, his eyes are serious. "I mean it, Sam. We're not gonna be pawns in their games anymore."

_It's not that simple_ , Sam wants to say. But he's so tired, so tired and just this time he wants to believe in something hopeful too. So, "No more," Sam agrees.

Dean nods, still serious for a moment, but then his eyes glint with amusement again. "You were passed out cold last night. I didn't have to put up with your whiny ass asking me what you were getting for your birthday, that's another good thing right there."

Sam bumps his knee against Dean's, and even though the thought of what Dean tried to do still burns like acid in his stomach, he's smiling too. Because. Because Dean's here. Dean's here with him and nothing else matters.

"And," Dean goes on. "Yesterday wasn't a Wednesday."

Sam frowns now. "So what if it had been?"

"C'mon, Sam. Nothing good's ever happened to this family on a Wednesday." 

Sam stares at him. Stares long and hard, and Dean returns his gaze, waiting. Waiting, even if he doesn't know for what.

"You're wrong," Sam finally says. 

"Oh, really? How'd you figure that, genius?" 

Sam doesn't answer right away. He just smiles. Reaches for Dean's hand and smoothes his thumb against his brother's finger, against the scar still forming there, doesn't stop even when Dean flinches. _Feel that? You're alive, Dean_.

"You were born on a Wednesday."

Dean blinks. "Say what?"

"The day you were born," Sam repeats. "January 24th, 1979. It was a Wednesday."

He keeps looking at Dean. Keeps holding his hand and Dean doesn't pull away. Doesn't avert his gaze, and Sam can see the exact moment when it _clicks_ , when Dean hears the words he isn't saying out loud. 

Sam expects Dean to contradict him. He expects Dean, at the very least, to roll his eyes and call him a girl, to tell him he knows he doesn't do chick-flick moments. 

For once, though, Dean's wide open, and looking at him Sam knows. He _knows_. 

Looking at Dean, Sam knows exactly where he belongs. 

 

(not) the end

+++++++++

**Additional notes :** The dates and corresponding day of the week mentioned in the story are all accurate. November 2, 1983, and November 2, 2005 both fell on a Wednesday, as did January 24, 1979. The timeline for Seasons 2 and 3 of Supernatural is a bit messed up, but apparently it's stated somewhere—the _Supernatural Official Companion_ , I think?—that Dean made his deal at the crossroads on Sam's birthday, and that's the date I chose to follow as the real one. And coincidentally—or not—May 2, 2007 also fell on a Wednesday.

Regarding the opening sequence: I know that a blast of rocksalt, even one at point-blank range, isn't enough to put a ghost permanently to rest. But in my mind it was enough to weaken the ghost and keep it from re-materializing for a while, long enough for Dean to get Sam out of there. 

The title for the story comes of course from the nursery rhyme: 

_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
Tuesday's child is full of grace,  
Wednesday's child is full of woe,  
Thursday's child has far to go,  
Friday's child is loving and giving,  
Saturday's child works hard for his living,  
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day  
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.


End file.
